


No Fixed Eyrie

by bobbiewickham



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bossuet, having no fixed abode, ends up troubling Bahorel in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Fixed Eyrie

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt from PilferingApples.

Bossuet, shivering on the landing, knocked frantically on the door of Bahorel’s apartment. 

“He won’t answer,” said Grantaire through chattering teeth, by his side, “depend on it, eagle of Meaux, there will be no safe perch for you here, or for me either. He told me his mistress was visiting tonight—”

The door opened, and Bossuet gave Grantaire a smug look, which changed to an apologetic one when he saw the frustrated expression on Bahorel’s face.

“Sorry, my dear fellow,” he said. “I swear, we only rouse you from your bed out of the direst need.” 

Bahorel did not look mollified. He was swathed in a bedsheet. Bossuet was fairly certain he was wearing nothing underneath, which was rather awkward, but he was past caring about that. “Come inside,” Bahorel finally grumbled, stepping back. He trod on the end of the bedsheet and almost tripped himself up, which did not improve his temper. 

“Who is it?” called a female voice from inside the bedroom. 

“No one of any consequence,” Bahorel growled, glaring at Bossuet and Grantaire. “Why are you here?” 

“Er, well, I—”

“Bossuet set fire to my apartment,” said Grantaire. 

Bossuet felt that this was an extremely unfair characterization of events, and said so. “Oh come now, Capital R! We were _both_ drunk, and you knocked into me _first_ , and I—”

“And you knocked into the candle, which fell on the bedspread, where you had spilled wine earlier—”

“You spilled some too!” 

“And the end result was a fine conflagration, which we succeeded in smothering, but not before it produced enough smoke to make my apartment unlivable for tonight, and perhaps tomorrow. So be a good fellow, Bahorel, and put us up for the night, would you?” 

“You are lucky I never turn away a friend in need,” Bahorel said, sounding as though he would very much like to do exactly that. 

“That’s exactly what I said to Grantaire before we came here,” said Bossuet, grinning. “Grantaire doubted you, if you can believe that! But I held firm. I said there was no possible way that Bahorel, angel among men, saint among sinners, always ready to be a brother to all, would deny us. No, Bahorel is too stalwart, too generous and too true to do anything less than open his door and share his roof, his sheets, his wine and his—”

Bahorel, after telling Bossuet to kindly shut up, went back into his bedroom. Bossuet could hear him murmuring an explanation before he came out with a mattress and some blankets. 

“You take this,” Bahorel said, shoving the mattress at Bossuet, “and Grantaire can sleep on the sofa. You were staying at Grantaire’s apartment?”

“Yes,” said Bossuet, “Joly has his new mistress, you see…” 

“But they have had four days alone without you underfoot, isn’t that right? That’s more than enough for any new couple; indeed, it’s too much for some. The woman is probably sick of him and wants a holiday, or else he has likely convinced her she is dying of the pox, and anyway, I’m sure Joly wouldn’t mind you coming back.” 

“Joly wouldn’t mind in the slightest,” said Bossuet, “it is my conscience that troubles me. A few weeks ago he brought a girl home, only to find me there, drunk and half-dressed as I was about to go to sleep, and she thought he was trying to, er, _share_ her with me.” Bahorel hooted. “It wasn’t funny. She slapped his face and stormed out. Very well, I will admit it, it was funny—poor Joly looked utterly flummoxed—but all the same, I would rather not serve as the accidental barrier between my dear friend and the more pleasant sins. I refuse to be Joly’s maiden aunt; I am entirely unsuited for such a role.” 

“But you are willing to be mine, it seems. Why not go bother Enjolras? Don’t tell me you’d be interrupting anything _there._ ” 

“I stayed with him the first two nights after I left Joly. He only has the one bed with the one mattress, and he sometimes kicks in his sleep, no doubt fighting the monarchy in his dreams, but old Charles was not bruised, no—that privilege was reserved for me. Enjolras apologized most profusely, poor fellow, I cannot hold it against him, but it makes for a restless sleep—and besides, he wouldn’t have room for a third,” Bossuet said, gesturing at Grantaire, who looked much too interested in precisely what Enjolras did in his sleep. 

Bahorel snickered but said, just to be arguing, “Well, I live closer to Grantaire than Courfeyrac does, so I suppose that is why you two chose to grace me with your combined presence rather than him, but what about Combeferre, then?” 

“Combeferre! I stayed with Combeferre last night. He has a _skeleton_ in his bedroom,” Bossuet said with a shudder. “Did you know that? A skeleton. I wonder about that man sometimes. I had the worst nightmare when I stayed with him. I dreamed the skeleton was coming at my neck with its long, white fingers, and I kept tripping over things when I tried to flee. Combeferre was in the nightmare, too—he kept explaining the skeleton’s anatomy to me as I was trying to get away from it, and gave me a detailed history of the recent discoveries made through the dissection of human corpses. That part of the nightmare might have been worse than the skeleton itself.” 

Grantaire looked thoughtful. “Do you know how exactly Combeferre got hold of a skeleton?” 

“…no,” said Bossuet. “Do you?” 

Grantaire and Bahorel shook their heads. The three of them contemplated this question in silent horror for a second or two. 

“Do you think—” Bahorel began. 

“Absolutely not,” said Bossuet. “I have no thoughts at all, not on this subject. I refuse to think on it. My mind is as blank and pure and clean and empty as a priest’s, or a law professor’s—”

“Do you think it once belonged to someone who yawned when Combeferre was talking of moths? That’s what I will choose to think,” Bahorel said happily, “it makes me like Combeferre even better. But what you are telling me, my dear eagle, is that the two of you interrupted me when I was having a very pleasant time because you are scared of _having nightmares._ ” 

“Er,” said Bossuet. “Well, when you put it like that…look, Bahorel, I’m awfully sorry, but surely Mamselle will be impressed with your character when you tell her you were merely helping two unfortunates, down on their luck—” 

Bahorel gave a deep, aggrieved, and put-upon sigh, shook his head, and grinned. “It wasn’t my _character_ I was hoping to impress her with,” he said, “but never mind. You are welcome here, of course. Settle into your nest, my dear boy, and here, Capital R, I’ve put some blankets on the sofa—I think it’s long enough for you, your feet shouldn’t dangle off the edge.” 

“Thank you,” mumbled Grantaire sleepily, flopping down on the sofa.

“Yes, thanks, old friend—I know this is a nuisance—”

“You always are, the both of you,” Bahorel said cheerfully, clapping Bossuet on the shoulder, “and what else are friends for? Now be a good boy and stop being apologetic, keep a safe distance from the candles, try not to make any distracting noises, and go to sleep.”


End file.
